


Dog Eat Dog

by GOUGER



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Murder Husbands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Puppy Play, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29568759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GOUGER/pseuds/GOUGER
Summary: Hannibal doesn’t necessarily understand why someone would want to take an animal in. They’re often too loud, too needy, too smelling of dirt and grime. It's a shame that his husband is convinced otherwise.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	Dog Eat Dog

**Author's Note:**

> in depth warnings -  
> \- references to 'novel Hannibal' who was described to torture animals as a child  
> \- puppy play, though it's extremely vanilla for a series of this kind (put on the cat ears and maid costume, Will Graham)  
> \- mostly fluff with dashes of the unsettling, you know, standard Hannibal things  
> \- crack taken seriously

Hannibal had known about the pet store the exact day of its grand opening. Such knowledge is never obtained on his own accord, of course. He would have gone the rest of his days without even noticing the place if it hadn’t been for his husband.

His lovely, beautiful, _incessant_ husband.

There’s a constituent to all this; with owning a pet comes needing to know where all the pet supply stores are (according to Will). They’ve had Encephalitis for a year now. Now, Hannibal would have much preferred they take home a purebred well-trained animal to satiate Will’s nagging need to have something to coddle as a parent. But Cephy, as Will often refers to her, is nothing of the sort.

It was around summertime when Hannibal acknowledged that what he was feeling happened to be elation. He finally had the life he fantasized about tucked neatly away in a perennial solitude. It took only a few months after healing from their injuries for Will and him to start a true, no holds barred, intimate relationship and a few months after that to tie the proverbial knot. No one could have predicted how slippery the slope would become after their cliff dive into the depths of the deep.

In simplest terms, Hannibal had been riding the high of being newly married to his one true soul mate. He had never felt that kind of exuberance, that kind of joy. Will can become wary of him during the times he subjects himself to unfamiliar emotions. They come and go like the wind passing by some days. Will insists that he tends to do rash things when he’s in the clouds, but again, he would never admit to being that unbridled.

When it comes to Will though, the lines in his mind tend to blur. Things that run left start running right and so forth. Up becomes down. Down becomes up. In the middle, a collection of prose:

“ _Don't leave now that you're here—_

_Stay. So the world may become like itself again:_

_so the sky may be the sky,_

_the road a road,_

_and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine._ ”

Cue Hannibal stalking through their backyard garden at three in the morning reciting such lines in his head, reminding himself that _this is worth it_. It is worth it for Will’s sake.

The mutt that’s been chewing on their tomatoes has been grating on his nerves for the past few nights. He’s in awe that Will hasn’t found her yet. Then again, the dog in question is smart enough to only steal when wandering eyes are fast asleep. It’s as if the damn thing knows better than to dig her way onto people’s properties during the day. However, she’s never dealt with the likes of Hannibal.

Truth be told, if Will weren’t around Hannibal would have had half the mind to kill her already. A total nuisance, honestly. How else is he supposed to make his Caprese salads without properly ripened tomatoes?

Even if he did manage to dump her miles away he’s sure Will would somehow find out about it. It’s taken long to rebuild the trust between them. The mere thought of ruining something that precious brings a sharp stab of pain to his heart.

So, the dog lives to see another day.

And another, and another, until Hannibal finally does his rightful duty as a life partner and drags her in by the loose scruff. Each following week is spent on his knees, scrubbing tracked mud off a Persian wool rug and stitching up tears in cloth. Busy work. Busy work that takes time which could be spent doing many other things.

But the look of absolute adoration on Will’s face is enough to move mountains in Hannibal’s mind. He had been gifted with plenty of kisses and hugs the second Will had figured out that they were adopting this new pest. An inward sigh is all Hannibal has left to give on the matter.

Everyone was right — love makes you blind and stupid. The things he’s done...

Which would include taking Will to this new pet shop that has just opened in town. If Hannibal had a choice, he would just order anything and everything that Encephalitis needs or could ever want. But Will had argued that there’s a certain novelty to pet stores. Even had the gall to compare it to attending suit fittings. “How are we supposed to know what she’ll like and won’t like?”

“Simple,” Hannibal replied alongside an online pet supply store opened on his iPad. “We respond to an object’s rightness of design, which satisfies our imagination and intellect, even though we are not evaluating the object’s purpose. So, let us show her an image and if she does not tilt her head in thought then we have our answer.”

“You and I both know that Kant’s aestheticism doesn’t apply to balls of fur, but I appreciate the attempt at an argument.”

A tiny bell jingles as Hannibal holds the door open for Will. That’s the precise moment when the smell of animal treats and then just plain _animal_ hits him straight in the face. Hannibal shuts his eyes to collect himself, then opens them once he’s stitched back into his safe haven of indifference.

Before the clerk has the chance to greet them, Will jolts ahead to practically make a beeline toward the barking wall of adoptable strays — something that Hannibal most certainly did not know they had. It’s no wonder Will almost begged him to come along. He should have scoped out the place days prior. A pure oversight on his own part. Hannibal silently prays to a higher power that they won’t be leaving this store with a new furry thing (courtesy of Will’s happiness).

“I was under the impression we came here to shop for the pet we already have at home,” Hannibal says, coming up to touch Will on his shoulder.

Obviously the puppies are too distracting because Will doesn’t even spare Hannibal a glance. Horrible, the lack of attention should be, but Hannibal has started to learn how to share with others. Will continues smiling in the direction of a particularly shaggy mixed breed that paws at the bars of its cage. “Sure,” he murmurs, still entirely enraptured by the sight of what must be drool and not water.

Does a maxim in which you should prod your husband with a knife when he ignores you exist? It certainly seems imperative now to do so. Kant, you ineffectual fool. Not even your views on aesthetics could hold weight against the beady eyes of small strays.

“Will.”

Only then does Will turn to face him in a manner that is far too wistful for Hannibal’s taste. “Can you exactly blame me?” the rhetorical question is accompanied by a nonchalant shrug to his shoulders. “You wouldn’t let me bring Cephy along. I’m making up for her absence.”

“She would have torn this store apart if we brought her, you know this very well by now.”

“Ah, so she _does_ take after her father.”

 _Which father_ is the question that flits around in Hannibal’s mind before residing itself in a corner.

And with that Will turns heel and makes his way down the nearest aisle with his hands in his pockets. Truly, he’s come more into his own confidence with being in public; that which Hannibal is grateful for. What he hasn’t expected is the utter cockiness that Will displays sometimes, as if he knows just how leashed and collared his partner really is.

Hannibal stands there near the big cages of puppies, eyes narrowing down on them. The shaggy one of the bunch seemed particularly tempting to Will. What’s to do about that? Hannibal can only hope the thing gets adopted before he has a say in its ending. As soon as he stops his glaring, he shakes any ill feelings away to trail after his runaway human.

Each shelf passed is littered with bright packaged treats, toys, and whatever else would spoil an animal. Hannibal doesn’t get it — doesn’t necessarily understand why someone would want to take an animal in. He’s the one who killed his family’s canary, after all. 

This doesn’t make him pathological in his ways, of course not, young Lecter only wished to discover what was inside; how it worked. He took the canary from its cage when the hallway clock struck twelve then ventured out into the cold with a kitchen knife stolen from its respective block. The procedure wasn’t done properly, seeing as how he was only seven at the time, but he was thorough in exploring its stomach and intestines. He was so curious! It couldn’t be helped really. So, he did what any curious child would do and brought a swipe of the mucus (from what must have been its duodenum) to his lip and stuck his tongue out. Lesson learned then, a good lesson, not to do that because the thing was incredibly acidic and made him recoil.

Disgusted but sparked with even more interest in the dead, he dug a shallow grave to bury the mangled bird corpse. Dalia was its name, that’s right. He dug a shallow grave and buried Dalia. But a seven year old Lecter was not as poised with hiding evidence as he would be in the future. Two days later, after much searching, his mother found the small pit in the ground and nearly fainted. All those years ago his father sought to discover why someone disemboweled the pet. Which maid had betrayed them? The sorrowful witch hunt only served to confuse Hannibal.

Though it certainly didn’t deter him. No family pets — too obvious, and seeing his mother’s crying scrunched face was off putting anyway. Strays, the wild ones would suffice for the coming years. He searched their bellies, throats, and ligaments to find an answer to his questions. They never talked back. The humans always did though. They screamed back.

But we all must rescind ourselves at some point. Hannibal had come to this conclusion on an ordinary murky day when he found himself sitting across from an irritated FBI agent; a man with dark circles and a darker frown tattooed on his face. Compromise is a love language within itself. Yes, it must be.

He finds Will at the end of the aisle scanning the shelves for something or another. Hannibal doesn’t care, or at the very least, can’t find it in himself to care. He looks at his watch. Twenty past ten. That’s enough time to start the loin roast he’s been planning for. The meat is rather fresh today too, just harvested last night from a delectable source. Will had assisted him eagerly. Roast always tastes sweeter when his husband helps him with the cuts.

So, when he gets home, he’ll have Will chop the vegetables (carrots, onions, potatoes, the like) and probably simmer the meat for say — five hours? What wine should they share? Perhaps one of the tart reds. Oh, yes, it’ll turn out lovely. The table could be decorated as well. A floral arrangement would work fine. What colors? Maybe he’s getting ahead of himself, these things tend to come better when he’s in the moment. Red? Black? White? Perhaps a royal blue to match Will’s eyes. If the gesture is done correctly he’ll take notice and become appreciative. Yes! A royal blue would suffice for something like—

“Wait!”

Hannibal raises his head. Rarely does Will use that sort of inflection in his voice nor sound so enamored. Immediately, Hannibal shoos his own thoughts away from dinner and places all leftover attention on what matters.

“They have dog ear headbands,” and suddenly there Will is, alternating between two separate pairs atop his head. “So, what’s the diagnosis? Am I more of a Labrador or German Shepard?”

It’s all in good fun, that much Hannibal knows, but a word appears into his field of view far too quickly. 

Will in this moment is devastating. The same person who has shed blood and dismembered corpses alongside Hannibal is often described in such ways, but this is a different kind of devastation — it is heart wrenchingly endearing. 

Maybe it’s because of the toothy grin, or in the way his voice picks up in a rare excitement. Anything but the faux dog ears that blend in with his beautiful brown strands.

This is the man who bends Hannibal over the kitchen island in the mornings, the one that keeps himself busy by repairing machinery, the one who whispers dominance in the night. But then Hannibal thinks back to all the unexplainable moments. The moments where Will falls asleep on his chest, drool slowly dribbling out past his mouth. The moments where Will’s bottom lip juts out in obvious frustration. The moments where Will hugs into Hannibal’s chest after a long day of living.

What is this? It’s different. Lust and love combined into something else. Cute, Hannibal thinks with uncertainty. The first time he’s ever acknowledged such a thing. He thinks if Will were a dog he had come across in his childhood he’d most definitely be curious. He would rip his ribs open and elbow deep search for what’s inside, what would make him tick on and off. It would be an unsatisfying process for the first time in his life. Yes, young Lecter would be unsatisfied _because_ he could not bring the corpse back together, to not have a chance at the same feeling as when he first laid eyes upon him. This is the first animal he would like to keep, to nurture, to hold in his arms because it is precious and must be loved.

Hannibal stares at Will as if frozen in time. Then, with two blinks, he breaks the silence between them. “The first one,” Hannibal replies rather flatly. “You’re more the first one.”

Will gives him a look, clearly having picked up on Hannibal’s disjointedness. He must be so obvious to Will — how dull and readable he’s become. The knowing expression is gone within seconds which gives Hannibal ample time to breathe properly. “Ha, maybe I could convince Cephy that I’m a new dog we brought home. It wouldn’t take a lot. She’s not exactly the sharpest tool,” Will shakes his head in a small degree of amusement. “Whatever. Come on, I want to look at the bedding they have here.”

He places the headband back on the display and walks on ahead, to be forgotten about, lost to the other flashy items stacked on shelves. Hannibal nearly doesn’t follow as he allows himself to remain stuck tight in a new and strange feeling.

* * *

Days later, Hannibal finds himself working meticulously. Will hadn’t exactly asked him to bake their dog a birthday cake, rather he dropped hints that Cephy would probably want one.

Hannibal almost argued back. In case Will forgot, he might have needed reminding that dogs can’t grasp the concept of birthdays. But the way Will cozied up to Hannibal and ran a calloused hand along his arm said otherwise. 

It left Hannibal wishing he weren’t so weak.

A biscuit tower is what he decided on. This way it could last longer then be easily taken apart and stored for later. With so many treats tucked away Will would be satisfied for at least a few weeks. Hannibal carefully pipes icing finishing onto one of the treats that are stacked before him on the kitchen counter. He tries not to think about how this is for a _dog_ despite each treat having been shaped into cartoonish bones. Regardless, he’ll be damned if didn’t put effort into the thing.

“Your father is quite persuasive,” Hannibal says, concentrated yet still recognizing the clicking of tiny nails at his feet. “He even convinced me not to kill you when you made a mess of the carpet.”

Encephalitis makes a whining noise and Hannibal pauses to look down at her. “Don’t worry,” he reassures, “If I were to actually kill you I’m sure he would seek vengeance upon my soul,” a throaty hum escapes him as he goes back to meticulously decorating. “Can’t have that, now can we?”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Will suddenly comes in looking more relaxed than anything else. “Especially not on her birthday week. You know dogs can pick up negative feelings, right? Every single one.”

Hannibal tilts his head but can’t help the upturn of his lip. “I wasn’t aware you’ve delegated an entire week to her,” he says while maintaining distance, desperately wanting to be nearer.

He isn’t sure of it, but Will must have some sort of gravitational pull with the sole purpose of tugging. A very distracting thing that takes up most of Hannibal’s thoughts. Really, it’s becoming a problem, or rather has been for the past — oh, how many years? 

“I made it a week because we don’t actually know her real birth date, having gotten her from the streets and all,” Will points out, like it’s obvious, before bending down to rub behind her ear. “And because she’s special.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal sees the dog flop down onto the kitchen floor. Her belly jiggles with the motion. Spoiled. She isn’t particularly noteworthy, and Hannibal has tried training her more than once. Rarely does Encephalitis listen. She lives up to her name, he thinks, stubborn with chronic ear infections that have to be treated by one of them constantly. 

The routine, if done by Hannibal, goes as such: tire her out (sometimes it takes an hour), lay her head on his lap, insert a few drops of _Zymox Otic Pet Ear Treatment with Hydrocortisone_ , massage in thoroughly, then finally wipe any excess outside the canal. 

Then, after that ordeal, she always insists on falling asleep the minute he finishes. Hannibal is left to make sure his entire schedule is clear just because this thing can’t stop rubbing the inside of its ears straight into the dirt. So, therein lies the next question that’s been on his mind, “What makes her different from your past dogs?”

“Well,” a pause as Will abashedly looks off to the side. “She’s _our_ dog. Guess that’s why I love her so much. Shared ownership, right?”

That’s a straight punch to the heart as far as Hannibal is concerned. Our dog! His and Will’s, Will’s and his. A thing they both must love and care for, something to tie them together even further. Theirs! His cold expression involuntarily softens. “Yes, I suppose that she is ours.”

Now he _really_ can’t kill the mutt.

After Will spends a few more seconds toeing at Cephy like he’s got nowhere to be (and let’s face it, he most definitely doesn’t), he comes to Hannibal’s side, peering over his shoulder in a curious fashion.

“What’s the icing made of?” he asks right as Hannibal finishes one of the biscuits at the top.

It’s reminiscent of a memory Hannibal has tucked away somewhere. Him at his mother’s side, or Mischa at his. Someone of short stature padding along in the kitchen with bare feet in the morning to the smell of freshly baked something. These things don’t seem to be quite clear anymore, yet ghosts still find their place on his shoulders. 

“Cornstarch mixed with water, food coloring, honey for taste. Completely safe and edible for humans and dogs.”

 _Rat poisoning was not in the ingredient list for this one, unfortunately_.

“Let me see,” Will says as if not trusting Hannibal’s words.

He swipes a finger over one of the completed biscuits and licks it like an absolute heathen. Hannibal smiles at the display. “Yup,” Will nods as if he were a food critic, Ramsay himself. “That’s definitely some good old boring icing.”

“Boring but I’m sure she’ll appreciate the sentiment,” Hannibal picks the piping bag up again to fill in the spot that Will had just pleasantly ruined.

“Thank you, Hannibal. For doing this. You didn’t have to, but you did. I don’t exactly know how to put this properly — ah, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m grateful.”

With that said into the open, Will stands there with a lipped smile, indeed looking incredibly grateful with his arms held behind his back and a sway to his feet. A subtle heel to toe, heel to toe, as if he’s begging to be carried off to the nearest bedroom. Will, _grateful for him_ , finally. Something deep inside of Hannibal starts to _ache_. His Will is so...so...

There’s that feeling again.

Will would surely be offended. He’s a man in his forties (though Hannibal would argue he looks to be in his thirties still), and a saccharine term of endearment would come off as deprecating. That’s the last thing Hannibal wants to do. They’ve made it this far — successfully evading arrest for several years and having the chance to call each other husband.

And, oh, Hannibal’s soul sings at the reminder that he’s married to Will. His darling, his love, his one true reason for living. A quick glance at his left hand reminds him of the night they agreed to the union. It was more of a mutual decision. There was no kneeling; by then they were long past equal. Will had argued that they didn’t even need to, that the symbol could never fully represent their existence. And yes, the whole thing would also be futile because the idea of legally marrying is impossible considering their identities as fugitives.

This ring would then only serve as a mark on both of them, Hannibal had said, and only after did Will nod alongside wetted eyes.

It took a long time to get here, but Hannibal has been willing to wait for forever. Three years in a cage was a small price to pay to have Will. And now he does. His to hold, to kiss, to cherish for the rest of their lives. Which is exactly why he doesn’t want to take any unnecessary chances. Will’s love is a fickle thing and changes like the weather. Some days he seeks out Hannibal’s affections, others he begs to be alone with his thoughts. This has never been a contingent point between them, but often Hannibal finds himself selfish for wanting Will by his side always.

Selfishness. Hannibal is careful with not showing any of it in fear that Will would decide to leave him at any moment. Call him insecure; he doesn’t care. He’ll be insecure if it means keeping Will happy.

“Are you okay?”

Hannibal looks to Will in a sort of haze. “Hm?”

“Uh, it’s just—” Will points at the tower of dog biscuits. “You’ve been covering the same spot for the past minute.”

Languidly, Hannibal turns his gaze back down. There’s a large clump of icing that has started to collect from his iron grip on the piping bag. He pulls back, wide-eyed and confused. Has time passed that quickly or has he just become an utter lovesick fool? “Will,” Hannibal says with a sigh. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave so I can finish this properly.”

Will raises a brow at him, genuinely confused this time around. “What?” he asks with crossed arms.

He could lie, tell him that there’s things that need to be attended to throughout the house. Hannibal decides to be truthful today once taking into account that nothing good has come from being dodgy. Will knows him well by now anyway. Hannibal is, simply put, an open novella. “I find your presence much too distracting,” he settles on while putting his (now clogged) piping bag on the counter.

“Oh,” Will says in a forced dumb manner, as if he has no idea of what he does to Hannibal. “I’ll be in the shed then,” he turns, walks a few steps, then stops to look over his shoulder coquettishly. “When you’re done, call me?”

The way he smiles makes Hannibal’s jaw clench with want. He takes note of the phrased question, how Will wets his bottom lip as he asks it. “I’ll call,” Hannibal says without breaking eye contact.

He always does.

* * *

A week passes before Hannibal admits to himself that he should probably talk to Will about his feelings.

Talking...feelings…with or without metaphors?

It’s a lot to consider. But certainly Hannibal would be a bad husband if he didn’t consider at all. Over the past few years he’s conditioned himself to be more open, to step out of the person suit he takes comfort in so he can be with Will face-to-face. He’s sure Will notices it (a lovely perception that Hannibal adores). Maybe he even appreciates the simple novelty of honesty.

Hannibal finds himself pondering this while drawing in his study. It’s more so an intrusive thought that he can’t shake. Sketching has always served as a method of calming himself, not one of inducing anxiety. Will clearly ruins his routine as much as he enlightens it.

There’s a knock on the door which precedes an entry. Hannibal doesn’t spare a glance but distantly wonders why Will still knocks if he’s just going to let himself in either way.

A floating presence perches itself near Hannibal’s shoulder like before. He doesn’t pay it much mind. Observing is something he often encourages Will to do by the way of silence anyway. He ought to do it, it’s his right to watch, to practice it for nights of hunting. But here in the study there is no animosity or vigor — he stands behind Hannibal with what must be a warm smile to his face.

“Hey,” Will starts and only then does Hannibal look up at him. “You know how much I love you, right?”

An interesting way to start a conversation. Hannibal indulges him, but demonstrates his composure by not coming to Will’s side like a pet. He sets his pencil down with a click on the desk. “Of course,” Hannibal says alongside the sound of Will humming affirmatively.

“And you love me just the same, right?”

Hannibal’s heart skips actual _beats_. He swallows it all down and maybe it’s audible, maybe it isn’t. “I wholeheartedly do.”

 _Perhaps more,_ Hannibal distantly thinks but doesn’t voice aloud.

Abruptly, Will pulls Hannibal’s chair out enough for there to be space between him and the desk. Hannibal watches as Will somehow snakes his way onto his lap in a straddle. The warm weight sends tingles up Hannibal’s spine. Annoyingly, his pulse picks up. He’s never quite figured out a way to control it during times like these. Will leans down, grabbing him by the collar and brushing his lips against his ear. “I would kill for you,” he says in that faint threatening whisper that Hannibal loves.

“You already have.”

“Mmhm, and I’d do it again,” a kiss on Hannibal’s right cheek, “And again,” the left, “And again,” then finally on the lips.

It takes everything in Hannibal not to succumb. His eyes threaten to flutter shut at the featherlight sensations. Never has Will been like this with him, tender and soft. Much too suspicious but still managing to be oh so intoxicating. A snake charmer’s melody that allures the reptile that lays under the bed. “What did you do, Will?” Hannibal asks, voice strained.

Will winces against him. Unsure and confident all the same. His adoring Will is ever so manipulative. There can be no other way. “I ruined your new skillet,” is the final admission, the nail in the coffin.

“You...” Hannibal starts with a twitch to his eye. “You ruined my new skillet.”

“I got distracted.”

Hannibal would think it apt to never allow him in the kitchen again. Better yet, he could cut off Will’s arms and hand feed him all his meals to make it much easier. Never touch another utensil, that won’t be necessary anymore. You may sit still in my lap, much like this, till the end of time and have me blow on every single hot portion so you don’t burn your pretty little vile mouth. A sequestering to a life of bilateral amputation! But worry not, everything will be done for you, you who cannot — _will not_ — ever lay hand on another skillet until the day you die.

“It may still be salvageable if I — ”

“It’s not. I tried,” Will shifts in his lap and smiles apologetically. “I love you so much.”

I love you so much, he says. I love you, the man, the monster, the foe. I love you! Hannibal inhales his murderous intent, then exhales it right out. Thoughts of sedating Will and surgically removing his limbs float away into several dark recesses. He can’t be mad. Can’t even be irritated. Not when Will is being...

Ah, that word crosses his path once again.

But it may as well have been in the back of his mind since the pet shop. The only reminder is Will sitting on his thighs, hair unruly with the scent of something burnt lingering on fabric. It should be a recipe for inciting insults and violence, but it only makes Hannibal’s stomach flutter with need.

“Dare I ask what you were attempting to make?”

“Eggs,” Will admits and he looks embarrassed about it. “I’ve never messed anything up this bad, honestly. That’s the thing about eggs. They seem so easy when you’re craving a ham and egg sandwich, but before you know it everything starts going downhill. Cephy started jumping up at me so I brought her outside for a bit. I’m being serious — they really do stick when you aren’t looking — anyway, brought her outside for a bit and the gate was open. She took off basically. I ran, picked her up, walked back inside and forgot about the stove. I just do this thing sometimes, you know the thing, where I forget what I’m doing. Wander away and get lost in my own thoughts. At least I wasn’t sleep-walking this time. No, I knew where I was,” he stops to laugh and makes a face. “Eggs.”

The way Hannibal justifies this is incredible. Rambling, to most people, is annoying. To Hannibal as well, it’s annoying. But when Will does something that should be annoying, _that Hannibal acknowledges is annoying_ , his brain turns on a special switch that negates it. Annoying becomes charming. Rude becomes pleasant. Will running his mouth on and on about eggs and distracting dogs and everything else might as well be poetry.

Hannibal is reduced by Will in this way, similar to the brilliant sauce reductions found on their plates, simmered down and boiled until it becomes intoxicating and intoxicated. Pour him over a steak and call him finished.

Will looks down at Hannibal with that awkward expression he so often has when he knows he’s done irredeemable wrong. Still, despite such wrongness, Hannibal reaches a hand up and tucks a few stray curls behind his ear. He kisses Will’s temple and swears he hears the most beautiful sigh of relief.

“Then let us go downstairs together so I can assuage your ravenous appetite with a ham and egg sandwich.”

And Will nods at him, now armed with the knowledge that he’ll always get what he wants.

* * *

The days Hannibal is apart from Will are spent thinking of him. During his three year imprisonment he had kept the man near in his thoughts as a sullen source of comfort. Separation is a punishment in many ways and in many others it can be used to strengthen the tie between them; it makes the heart grow fonder, as the saying so often goes.

Except Hannibal had felt like his chest would snap in half the moment he told Will he needed to leave their home for an undisclosed amount of time. The look on Will’s face was nothing short of hurt (which was strangely unexpected). There were many questions asked all at once. Where are you going? Why are you going? _Why can’t I go with you?_

It took longer than Hannibal would have liked to convince Will to stay and watch over the house during his absence. There were many things that needed to be done, deeds to be settled, properties to be tended to, just in case.

Will nodded along with that stubborn crease glued to the center of his brow. So, Hannibal had pulled him in to stroke him by the hair, sure to remind that he’ll miss him just the same.

That was two weeks ago. Hannibal has never longed for anything so hard. Perhaps it was knowing the touch of Will that had made it more difficult, knowing how mutual their affections are and how in turn they affect each other. Nothing during those two weeks could take Will out of his thoughts. Not even a spur of the moment kill ceased the ache in his soul. A part of him was missing so the bloodshed tasted only of longing.

He counted the days, each and every single minute and second, as if it were a bad dream to wake up from. Had he imagined this domestic life with a husband that bore resemblance to a Will so made of the past and the future? A gambler’s fallacy — in that suddenly this man who looks so much like his love will finally confirm that these newfound affections have been but a mere lucky streak.

Irrational. Overbearingly irrational. Will termed you ‘impulsive’ during your sentencing. Prove him wrong.

“Will?” Hannibal echoes out (voice forcibly leveled) into the foyer of their home, placing his travelling bags down beside his feet in an uncaring manner that is quite unlike him.

There’s no response. Hannibal turns his nose up and inhales deeply. The strong scent of _mutt_ is apparent, but no dog comes running. Will’s usual aftershave is yet to be present as well. A needle-like sensation runs up Hannibal’s spine. The last time they talked on the phone was a few days ago. He had called to tell Will he would be arriving back home in a bit, then hung up rather abruptly with an, _I’ll see you soon_.

The reason for it was simple — hearing Will’s voice hurt. It served as a reminder of what he was apart from. Why would he tease his heart with something completely out of reach?

Hannibal finds himself walking quickly throughout their home with the eyes of a madman. Surely Will wouldn’t leave him just like that. He’d hang a note on the door first, or in the foyer, or in the kitchen, or _somewhere_ easily noticeable. Hannibal’s (though he would deny) anxious gaze flits every which way until he finally decides to practically jog up the stairs and onto the second floor landing.

He doesn’t bother hiding his footsteps as he usually does, things like that don’t matter anymore. But there it is in the peripheral, the bedroom door opened just a crack with light billowing into the hall. Salvation! Hannibal makes his way in, pushing it open without a knock, and —

Stops with two firmly planted Oxford-wearing feet at the entrance. “Hello...Will...”

“Hi, I’m glad you’re back.”

“Where’s the dog?”

“Right in front of you.”

Hannibal can’t seem to close his mouth out of pure awe, his jaw seemingly losing its hinges. “No. Ours. The dog. The real one. Where is she?” he replies, slowly and unassuredly.

Will tilts his head up in what seems to be a semblance of a nod. Stiffly, he smiles. “The backyard.”

They stay still, motionless and stuck in time after that. Had Hannibal just walked in on him? No, that can’t be right. This is clearly deliberate. He plays with his shining cufflink — and yes, Will is making him unsure of where they stand here. “Of all the things I was expecting to find upon my return, I have to say, this was not one of them.”

A change in Will’s voice marks the downfall of whatever confidence he had prior. He sounds strained, reminiscent of older days. “It was kind of a spur of the moment purchase,” he says before clearing his throat.

“Was it?” Hannibal takes a tentative step closer. “Or has it actually been on your mind?”

“I don’t think you should be one to judge seeing as how it’s also been on yours,” and there atop the pillowed mattress lies a naked Will, save for the two particular accessories he refers to. “I saw the way you looked at me in the store, Hannibal. Is it the dog part that turns you on?” he shakes his head causing the metal of his plaid collar to rattle, a physical disagreement with himself. “No, that’s presumptuous of me. There must be something else about it.”

“You acting like a dog doesn’t—” Hannibal stops himself short in an effort to think more clearly (becoming precedingly difficult). “Perhaps it’s just you. Your playfulness constantly ignites something in me that I can’t give a name to.”

“Mmn,” Will hums thoughtfully along before adjusting the dog-eared headband more snuggly atop his head. “So, we’re in agreement then? Labrador suits me better.”

“I’ve always imagined you as a Dachshund. Small and unassuming, yet they are among the most aggressive breeds.”

“You know more about dogs than I thought you did, Dr. Lecter.”

“My husband unfortunately holds certain proclivities towards them. It’d be rude of me not to do my own research,” Hannibal pauses as his mind barely catches up with him. “Dr. Lecter?”

“You’re the vet and I’m the poor unassuming animal.”

Hannibal’s cock twitches and he swears he can feel the blood leave his face to go elsewhere. Oh no, Will. You know not what you do. You who knows very well of my innate sadism. You who wrote an in depth analysis about the Chesapeake Ripper and the man’s abiding appetite for dominance over the weak. So you lay there, ripe for taking, _collared even_ , and smile unwittingly. “Is this a roleplay?” Hannibal asks, wanting to seem unaffected by the prospect of flogging Will until he cries.

“Of sorts,” Will says before he stretches out his limbs, the collar rattles again and it reminds Hannibal too much of a neighbor’s dog he killed in his youth. “Look, just come over here and fuck me. I’ve missed you.”

And surely Hannibal can’t even begin to argue with that. He doesn’t say another word before he starts stripping (teetering on tearing) off his clothes, shoes, and whatever else would separate their skin on his way to Will’s side. 

Hannibal lays down, motions for him to turn, then settles behind — chest to back. He wastes no more time after this and encircles Will by the waist to properly indulge. With a sigh, tired that he is from jetlag, Hannibal buries his nose within the crook of Will’s shoulder. He’s as happy as a lark like this. Together at last. He wishes to sink into Will, past his ribs, into his heart so they could never be stripped away from one another. Hannibal could cry tears at the flowery thought. Forever with his other half, complete. 

The tagged collar makes a subtle noise again when Will tilts his head back. Hannibal peers up to see him grin, as if he’s finally at peace as well. Finally intrigued, Hannibal grabs the loosely hanging piece to properly look at it. Carved into its cool metal are the initials _W.L.G_ , William Lecter-Graham — Hannibal repeats it in his head like a mantra. It sounds right, correct, more so than a simple _William Graham_ could be. “Where did you get this?”

“I made the tag while you were away. The collar is store bought.”

He can see it now, Will spending extra time in the shed carefully engraving both their namesakes into a tiny dog tag. This is a gift of ownership and he had submitted to it willingly. Happily. Hannibal can’t hold back a smirk any longer.

“You had much fun putting this together, didn’t you?”

“It can get boring being left alone in a big house for two weeks with nothing to do, nowhere to go. I couldn’t even get myself to hunt because every time I got dressed I’d just end up thinking of you. One thing led to another and — this is strange, isn’t it?” Will presses his lips together. “I feel strange.”

“Strange can be good,” Hannibal reminds as he hooks a deft finger underneath the collar's strap, pulling it gently to dig the material into Will’s throat. “Why declare the unfamiliar as something that you should be ashamed of? You are so often caught up in your own thoughts, Will. Always one foot in and one foot out. Allow yourself to embrace this new so-called strangeness.”

“Embrace it,” Will repeats the phrase, suddenly entranced by the way Hannibal trails his other hand down his side and to his ass. “I can do that.”

“Yes, you can.”

Then he kisses and lightly tongues Will’s ear, taking it in between his teeth for good measure. Will sniffles, audibly swallows, before he shivers at the feeling of Hannibal’s touch on his already slick hole. “Sorry. I was too excited and went ahead,” he must think should be mentioned.

“Don’t apologize,” Hannibal whispers and begins to run a finger against Will’s swollen rim. “Never apologize for this.”

He sees Will nod before tensing at the sudden pressure. The way his body just takes Hannibal to the knuckle with ease is enough to make a composed man like himself nearly groan with want. It’s loosened from whatever Will did prior to his arrival — by the way, Hannibal didn’t mention, but the thought of Will fucking himself in desperate anticipation is lovely — the muscles are still tight here and he can’t resist curling his finger inside to test it further.

Will responds with a light feathered gasp when Hannibal starts to pump his finger up into his prostate, then a second, inside of him. By now, they both must be dripping with need. Equally insatiable. And as Hannibal rubs quick circles he knows this to be true with the way his wrist is grabbed, begging him to do more. Two weeks has treated them poorly. Two weeks somehow felt like two years. Hannibal is a patient person by nature, but nothing has been able to ruin his composure quite like this test of time.

That’s when Will starts shaking his head, entirely impatient to match. “Hurry. I’m ready — I’ve been ready all day. You’re killing me, Hannibal.”

How familiar. Will, covered in red, and at the end of a knife. Pleading eyes and shaky limbs. Hannibal can’t help but to lick his lips at the macabre imagery. “Killing? You mistake worship for pain.”

“It’d be better if,” Will tries to grab at his crotch with irritation, “you started _worshipping_ me with this.”

Loud and clear. Hannibal, for once, doesn’t have much in terms of a proper reply. How does the saying go? Actions speak louder than words? Yes, that’ll do.

He wonders if Will would be able to take him right here and right now. It’s an experiment that Hannibal would love to explore. But he isn’t unnecessarily cruel. Rougher nights can be saved for later. Right now — as cliched and marbled as it may sound — Hannibal would like to have Will lovingly, safely, because in all honesty he has missed him very much and is feeling rather sappy about it.

Violence is what they used to only understand. Without the blood and the spillage, Hannibal had once worried what they would become if the motivation for gore ceased to exist. What would happen if Will reached his limit? If he suddenly decided that being on the other side of the veil was not what he truly wanted. Yet, here they are, and Hannibal finally arrives at the conclusion that without these things there would still be them — in love, happy. So, so, so happy. Now the violence may as well be a simple drop in the bucket (though Hannibal is pleased that Will enjoys those things just the same). In the end, Hannibal just wants one thing; Will. Only him and everything else comes second.

And, well, whatever is on Will’s head and neck he supposes is also going to be a part of this reunion too now.

After a moment of retrieving their bedside lubricant (which Will is always having to order more of), Hannibal covers his own cock with it before he hurriedly decides that he also can’t wait any longer. Why wait when Will is practically begging, naked and at the ready. What has Hannibal done in a past life to warrant such fortuity? How could he have ever predicted that those days spent in Baltimore, watching from afar, were merely the tip of a long descending iceberg made of lust?

“You always take me so well,” he says, settling behind Will again to finally press the head of his cock past his rim, sinking inch by inch. “As if you were made for me.”

Will doesn’t respond. Rarely does. Hannibal has very much taken notice at how quiet he gets during sex sometimes. The first time they were intimate (prolific and astounding as it had been) Hannibal grew worried. It had convinced him that Will was doing something similar to dissociation, like he didn’t want to be there at all. He only stared at Hannibal with lips parted and a crease between his brow. This was another Gordian knot that desperately needed solving.

So, as any man in love would be, Hannibal spent those next few days crazed out of his mind at the idea that Will didn’t enjoy any of it. Pacing around the safehouse as he often did when bothered. Will actually had the nerve to approach him, no — grab him by the arm and demand what was wrong.

But what _was_ wrong? They both had come, both flushed with satiation and much else. Will had even let Hannibal lay with him thereafter as well. On top of one another as if it were the most natural thing to do. Why then was Hannibal not thrilled?

“You’ve been walking around like you’re getting ready to hurt someone,” Will had pointed out, distasteful and exactly correct. “Talk to me, Hannibal. I didn’t throw us off a cliff just to keep more secrets.”

Yes, that would do it. Withholding things would be a horrible disservice to Will’s decision. He’s come into his own — on his own. Ran away and left his old life behind for this. It’s Hannibal’s duty to meet him halfway. “Did you enjoy our first time together?” he (in possibly the most straight-forward he’s ever been) asked.

Will looked at him, blinking, confused even. It made Hannibal feel the closest to a fool.

“What?” one word that sees right through the façade. “You...you’re serious?” and then Will had started grinning through a hushed laugh. “I did! Oh wow, I did. Uh, why would you think any different?”

“You were uncharacteristically quiet.”

“Oh no, I didn’t mean—” he paused, reaching for an explanation. “I just get like that sometimes. I’d never thought we would be...yeah. I was overwhelmed, that’s all. But it was good, _so good_ , I promise. Next time I’ll be better about that.”

 _Next time_ , rung in Hannibal’s eardrum.

And such promised next time did come, in fact. It came with a vengeance. Strong enough for Hannibal himself to feel overwhelmed. Will allowed himself vocalization alongside heavy gasps and moans. The next time after that and after that were only greater. There’s also the in-betweens, where Will rescinds himself by lying back or sitting on top and (much like their first) doesn’t say a word...

Sometimes. Other times he’ll spit in Hannibal’s face and call him obscene names. Something out of a video from old, those scratchy DVDs that harbor secrets in the back of a rental store. It’s always a delight to see what Will ends up doing when inspiration hits. No matter how filthy, Hannibal wants him any way he can get him.

“My darling,” he says as he kisses down the back of Will’s shining nape. “Even with that ridiculous thing on your head I still can’t resist you.”

Then, gentle as if he were really handling a beloved pet, he places a hand atop Will’s jutting hip to help steady. “Ridiculous?” Will asks as if there isn’t something pressing deep inside of him, pain tolerant. “That’s not a nice thing to say about a dog’s ears,” he continues to quip back even through the buildup of shallow breaths. “Mine lay flat, sure, but do you prefer these? Or are you more of a pointer guy?”

And although Hannibal truly loves him, he has half the mind to roll his eyes. He doesn’t though, resists the urge. Instead he focuses on the feeling of being inside Will. Warm velvet and as tight as he usually is. As good as paradise should be. Hannibal gently puts his hand over Will’s mouth, though it's in good fun and nothing more. “Shh, you’re much too loud.”

Will huffs into his palm as Hannibal starts to grind himself further into him. All that Will can really do like this is let noises spill from his throat, short and muffled by the hand on his face. The way he arches his back to take Hannibal further and easier is only telling of his enjoyment.

But that’s just too bad, really. Why cover such beautiful sounds when there is simply no reason to? Will had spent much of his life staying quiet and undetectable. Setting himself aside for society’s own comfort. Let him be free, Hannibal thinks. He removes his hand and, much like a dead man brought back to life, Will inhales the new fresh air. “Ooh — keep doing that,” he says through gritted teeth like he’s in pain before sucking in another breath, practically whining. “God.”

Hannibal wants to argue that God isn’t here right now. He wouldn’t let anyone in their bedroom during this (much less God) because the sight of Will’s body being used for such things should remain private. This is only for Hannibal’s eyes, ears, his heated skin.

Unfortunately, such vocabulary escapes him. When Hannibal was young and his accent thick he had studied other languages by ways of autodidacticism. Nights were often spent in the pages of foreign books and in the ways of memorization — no word safe from his gaze. And yet, for all his years spent learning English, spent writing academic reviews, spent learning the intricacies of sentence structure, all he can muster is a contrite and heady, “You like it?”

He pulls out a bit, back in, out then in, agonizingly slow that it makes Will weakly reach behind himself to paw at his hip. “ _Yes_. Please, harder.”

“Not yet,” Hannibal says, pulling out completely (something near _fussing_ from under his touch) and pushes off. “Look at me. I want to see your face.”

Will, clearly in some sort of haze, turns to lay on his back for Hannibal to see all. Every scar, every freckle, exposed and at the ready. His skin is as beautiful as it’s always been. Any imperfections only solidify the perfection. Will says nothing despite the leering eyes. In the most composed manner, he lifts both his legs up, bent for taking. Hannibal supposes that this is communication enough.

He leans down to catch the back of Will’s legs and hooks them around his waist. Close, closer, until he has his cock slipping inside again and with that licks into Will’s mouth as if it’s the only thing he’s ever known.

They could probably stay like this, kissing unhurriedly for hours on end. Probably already have done something similar if Hannibal had half the mind to recall. On occasion one of them will be on the couch, in a chair, accessible and possibly strategic for the other to become a lapful. Those are some of Hannibal’s favorite days, the ones spent indulging within each other. Perhaps the taste of Will has become an unshakable addiction that he can’t rid. Not that he would want to in the first place.

Then they pull away, just for the very reason of Hannibal needing to focus on fucking into him properly. Will is stuck staring down at where they’re connected with half-lidded eyes, a state of euphoric shock.

“Jesus,” — isn’t here either — “I could come like this. I could,“ he says.

“Just this?” Hannibal punctuates it by gripping harder onto Will’s hips, blunt nails digging into the soft flesh and bruising. “From me inside you?”

Will squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head to the side as he lets himself be used. His dripping cock bounces against his stomach with each thrust — which should be painful, but he looks like he’s enjoying every second of it. “Oh, fuck, Hannibal. Keep talking to me, I want to.”

“Don’t touch yourself. You can do it, come from my cock. You’ve been doing so good. You can do this too — I know you can.”

He feels more like a dog than Will at this point, thrusting in and out with the sound of his balls slapping against damp skin hard and fast. But that’s the best part of it as Hannibal’s come to know, like when he hunts. It’s an animalistic act. Right now too he feels the same, driven only by instinct to somehow push himself further into Will. Only him who has made Hannibal feel this way. He wants, no, _needs_ to bury himself deep so his cum can stain the inside of Will and everything that he is. Mark him, _do it_. Do it so he can never forget who owns him.

Yes, there it is. The overwhelming urge to pull the jangling collar tight and choke Will for all he’s worth. Sink your teeth in, own him, own him, so through that you can show him just how cherished he truly is.

Hannibal’s hand then pushes Will’s bangs back to pull on the stray hairs. Will’s face is brazenly open, marred skin and all. His lips, his cheeks, his nose, and those ears — those cute ears that would roast wonderfully. Hannibal finds himself going mad at the very sight. He leans over, bending Will’s body to perhaps its breaking point. Going deeper and deeper, losing his own mind through his dick. “You’re my good boy, Will, yes?” he says sounding nothing like himself, accent thick and overbearing. “You’ll come like this and show me that you are.”

Will shakes his head in a no motion at the demand and yet, “Yeah—! I’m your good boy. I’ll be whatever you want me to be. Oh, fuck,” is what spills out.

As if with the push of an _on_ button, Will’s stomach tenses and his muscles pull taut. That’s it, that’s it, Hannibal thinks grinding himself in. Use me as I use you, your pleasure and mine intertwined. Maybe it’s the man under him or maybe his very own fantasies that spur on Hannibal’s release as well, he doesn’t know. A combination, it seems, always it is.

Hannibal slowly pulls out and even then cannot bear to be away from Will for more than a second. Spit, sweat and cum be damned. He drapes himself over the other and peppers kisses across his face, enough so Will starts uncontrollably smiling—laughing even, despite just having been fucked to oversensitivity. It’s a wonderful sound. Melodic. Will’s happiness is truly Hannibal’s as well. With one last kiss to the scar along his jaw, Hannibal pulls away only to pull him close once again, an intimate hug that surely has to be uncomfortable.

But if it is, Will doesn’t mention any distaste for the strong pressure. Instead he leans into it and wraps his arms around Hannibal in reciprocation. Their nude legs entangle with one another like this. Hannibal almost sighs at the feeling.

“So, that was weird,” a small voice suddenly says against him.

He smiles. “On the contrary, I would argue it has been one of the more tame things we’ve done together.”

Will looks straight at him, kiss-bitten lips parted and hair tossed around, then laughs. “You got me there. It _was_ weird but also really hot. I want you inside me again, or me inside you—can we do that? Can you go another round?”

His exuberance is contagious. Hannibal’s age hardly deters anything between them in regards to this. Thirty? Forty? Fifty? It is all the same when it comes to being inside Will. “In a bit, but as much as I would love to not move from this bed, I must.”

“I don’t need a towel—“

“Not that, no. I would like to bring our dog back inside. The weather calls for a storm tonight.”

“Hell,” Will blows out, all of a sudden beside himself. “I almost forgot about her. Some owner I am.”

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Every desecration of an animal’s corpse by Hannibal’s hand floats back into his mind, each their own balloon, dripping and childlike. He thinks he understands now — the why of _why_ someone would want to take an animal in.

“Perhaps it would be appropriate to say I care about her more in this moment.”

“Hannibal,” is the lovely warning he receives, one that threatens and pulls at his heartstrings like no tomorrow. “Just go bring her in.”

“Of course,” Hannibal replies utterly smitten and reaches over to rub the tip of one of Will’s faux ears. “And you’ll wait here like a good boy, won’t you?”

“Oh my god.”

Then Will is left to cover his face with an arm, mortified, but other than that doesn’t respond further.

Hannibal supposes some animals are worth keeping alive after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's not that Hannibal hates dogs, rather he just can't find it in himself to care lol. anyways, thanks if you read! :- )


End file.
